


god save the drunkards and the lovers

by apolliades



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Confusion, Drunk Kissing, M/M, Multi, OT3, OT4, Sex, Sexual Tension, Threesome - M/M/M, athos' emotional issues, i have No Idea what to tag this as mary forgive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3647808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to kill you, that day we met,” d’Artagnan slurs, the words coming out of the blue, his Gascon accent becoming thicker with the wine.<br/>“I’m glad you think so,” Athos comments dryly, through a thin smile.<br/>“No, really, Athos,” d’Artagnan protests, coming to a sudden stop that nearly trips them both, and swinging himself round to stand in front of his friend, empty hand planted on Athos’ chest to keep himself steady, “It would’ve been a shame,”</p><p>
  <i>a drunken kiss leads to a bigger mess than d'Artagnan could have possibly imagined.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>d'artagnan/athos + athos/porthos/aramis</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	god save the drunkards and the lovers

**Author's Note:**

> please excuse my weird writing style here, i had athos' voice in my head the entire time.  
> this is my first fic for the musketeers.  
> title from the quote "everyone knows that god protects drunkards and lovers" by dumas.

It's late, and d’Artagnan is drunk, on cheap, potent wine and the thrill of a battle closely won just  hours ago. The others are too, of course, but only Athos is left in the inn with him; Aramis is accompanying Porthos home after it took the other three of them to hold him back from throwing himself into yet another a brawl over a game of cards. Porthos always has an Ace or a King stuffed up his sleeve and is aways ready to throw a punch whether or not he’s in the wrong - which is why Aramis has taken to standing close behind him whenever he sees the cards come out, ready to haul him out of danger. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help but be a little disappointed; Porthos and Aramis tended to provide half the fun when the four were out drinking. Athos makes his quiet, dry jokes when the opportunity arises but for the better part of most evenings he will insist on sitting in a corner alone and downing glass after glass of wine, his face sullen as a storm cloud. Neither of the others could tell d’Artagnan why. “Woman trouble” is all either of them would say, and yet d’Artagnan hasn’t seen Athos with a woman once. Athos is private in an almost intimidating way, so none of them has dared to press him further, and seeing the intensity with which he’s now tipping back glass after glass of wine, d’Artagnan isn’t actually sure he entirely wants to find out.

Nevertheless, d’Artagnan makes his stumbling way through the inn and plops down into the empty chair at Athos’ table. His veins are still buzzing with the exhilaration of the day and the warmth of the alcohol, and he’s determined to make the most of it, determined to have some fun, and some company, even if that company consists of a sour faced man with at least half a bottle of wine inside him. 

“What do you want, d’Artagnan?” he greets him flatly, lifting the bottle to pour himself another glass. His expression has barely changed; indifferent, a hint of disgruntlement, narrow eyes and a furrowed brow. D’Artagnan holds out his own glass, and Athos begrudgingly fills it.

“I’ve come to drink with you,” d’Artagnan answers with a coy smile, raising his glass and wiggling it at his friend. His eyes sparkle with a youth free of trouble that Athos envies - he looks away, casting his gaze towards his drink instead. The wine here is foul, but it’s strong and it’s cheap, and when you’re drinking to be drunk that’s the most important thing. Besides, drink enough of it and you become numb to the taste. Athos learned that long ago. 

“I prefer to drink alone.”

“Well, I prefer to drink with company.” 

D’Artagnan apparently isn’t quite accustomed to the bitter taste; Athos’ lips flicker fleetingly with the hint of a smile as he watches the boy swallow and grimace. 

Athos breathes out a deep sigh, studying d’Artagnan’s face. D’Artagnan is grinning at him, practically radiant with boyish charm. Anyone can see he’s beautiful, with high cheekbones and plump lips, deep eyes and a sharp jaw smattered with stubble on smooth skin. Irresistible. No doubt he has girls falling at his feet, Athos muses. Like Aramis, he’s a lover, and he’s charming, but in a more forward, youthful way, so that even Athos can’t bring himself to turn him down properly. He looks away again, putting his glass to his lips. 

“You should’ve gone with Aramis and Porthos, then. I’m afraid you will find me no fun at all.”

D’Artagnan can’t tell how much of his tone is joking, but he doesn’t allow himself to be put off, holding out his glass for another refill. 

“Come now Athos, don’t put yourself down like that. I’m sure you’ll be excellent company, _mon pote_.”

“And if you keep up like this, you’ll be paying for the next bottle,” Athos adds, raising an eyebrow as he watches his companion throw back the wine in a gulp, watches his Adam’s apple move under the taut skin of his throat. His shirt is open, and Athos’ gaze wanders to the hint of dark hair peeking out from behind the fabric before he catches himself.

Oblivious, d’Artagnan smirks, playfully, and calls the serving girl to bring another bottle. 

It could’ve been an hour later or half of one - it’s hard to tell how much time has passed when you’re full of wine - and the pair are walking together down a dark Paris street, heading vaguely in the direction of the garrison. Around the third bottle of wine d’Artagnan had started to grow emotional, tearing up about nonsense, about the first girl he ever loved, about how he misses the countryside, misses being a child free to run in the fields. When he had gotten onto the subject of his father, started stumbling over his words to apologise to Athos for trying to kill him the first day they met, Athos had hauled him up out of his chair and dragged him onto the street to clear his head, the last of the bottle of wine still clutched in his hand. Athos wasn’t, and rarely ever is, in any mood to deal with an outburst of feelings. Fortunately for him the cold air seems to have worked a miracle in cheering d’Artagnan up; as they walk, Athos’ arm around d’Artagnan’s shoulders to keep him vaguely upright, he’s whistling out of tune in between gulps of wine, cheerfully, a melody like birdsong. He staggers on every other step, fingers gripping at the back of Athos’ jacket. 

“You know, it’s a good thing I didn’t have to kill you, that day we met,” d’Artagnan slurs, the words coming out of the blue, his Gascon accent becoming thicker with the wine, turns of phrase becoming more and more colourful and unusual. It's endearing, the clash of their accents, Athos’ words proper and pronounced, never a syllable out of place even when he’s been drinking, while d’Artagnan’s tumble out of his lips uninhibited. 

“I’m glad you think so,” Athos comments dryly, through a thin smile.

“No, really, Athos,” d’Artagnan protests, coming to a sudden stop that nearly trips them both, and swinging himself round to stand in front of his friend, empty hand planted on Athos’ chest to keep himself steady, “It would’ve been a shame,” Athos looks up at him, a brow raised, very aware of the unnerving closeness of their faces, feeling the cloud of d’Artagnan’s warm breath on his cold skin. D’Artagnan is a good inch or two taller, but Athos never really noticed the difference before. Then again, he’s never stood so close to him before either, never had to look up to meet his eye.

They stand like that for several moments, Athos unwilling to move incase he unbalances d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan showing no sign of stepping away. It becomes increasingly uncomfortable; d’Artagnan’s skin is hot and flushed despite the chill in the night air, and his fingers tighten minutely on Athos’ chest - Athos shifts a little, throat going dry. He isn’t used to being made uncomfortable, isn’t used to being the one pinned; d’Artagnan’s gaze is becoming more and more intense, and Athos can practically taste every breath that issues from the boy’s open lips. It’s too much and it’s strange and unsettling - he can’t judge the situation, can’t read what’s going on. He wraps his fingers firmly round d’Artagnan’s wrist, puts his other hand against his shoulder, ready to push him away but still catch him should he fall.

“D’Artagnan,” Athos gives a careful shove, aware of how unsteady d’Artagnan is on his feet. Then all at once in a heavy stumbling move d’Artagnan takes three steps backwards, grabbing at Athos’ collar, pulling him forwards as he backs up into a wall so that suddenly their positions are reversed. The sound of the wine bottle shattering on the cobblestones cuts through the quiet of the night, but goes unnoted by them both.

“D’Artagnan, what are you doing?” Athos blurts, his usual composure broken, expression open and confused while d’Artagnan’s is intense, focused, his eyes on Athos’ thin mouth, both of them breathing heavily. The atmosphere is completely different to what it was before - now it is thick, confusing - and the tension between them is almost unbearable - but it lasts only for a few seconds, as d’Artagnan tightens his grip on Athos' jacket and tugs him stumbling forwards, closing the gap between them, pressing their mouths together in a sore, messy kiss. It throws Athos into shock, and he just stands there, eyes still open, barely moving save to press his hands against the wall to keep himself from crushing d’Artagnan. Seconds pass before he remembers himself and jerks his head back, staring wild eyed at the boy, who stands with damp lips and hooded eyes. Athos hisses his name, and the sound of it seems to snap him back to here and now, to the reality of what he just did. A curse slips from his mouth as an expression of something like terror dawns on his face. Before Athos can say a word, d’Artagnan pushes past him and flees, disappearing with heavy footsteps into the dark. 

***

 The next morning d’Artagnan wakes up with an ache in his skull and a foul taste in his mouth and a head full of fuzzy, incoherent memories of the previous night. Groaning, he presses the heels of his palms into his burning eyes. While the majority of the night’s events may be blurry, one moment stands out painfully vividly in his head. 

“Athos,” he groans to himself, and then regrets it immediately - even the sound of his own voice is like a knife scraping at his eardrums. God, getting as drunk as he did last night really wasn’t worth it. 

As his head becomes clearer, a miserable sinking feeling settles in d’Artagnan’s gut. Last night he hadn’t stuck around long enough to gauge Athos’ reaction to - what he did. He trusts Athos with his life, just as he does Aramis and Porthos, and the Captain - but this is completely uncharted territory. D’Artagnan would trust any one of them with any one of his secrets - but not this. Lying still with an arm across his face, trying to ease his headache, he wracks his brains for any idea of what had happened after his stupid kiss. He finds none. 

Now he regrets leaving so quickly even more than he does kissing him in the first place. Anything Athos could’ve done, had it been breaking his nose with a fist or smashing his skull on the stone wall, now seems preferable to the sickening worry churning in his stomach. He wonders if Athos will have told anyone. If the others found out the humiliation would be unbearable, but that would probably be the least of his worries. D’Artagnan knows sodomy is a crime punishable by death - almost everything is, these days - and wonders if a kiss alone would be enough to get him arrested. Eventually the worry starts rising towards panic and mixing with the sickness from his hangover it becomes unbearable - with a deep breath, he forces himself out of bed, fighting through how ill he feels, and dunks his head into a painfully cold basin of water. He has to find Athos.

***

D’Artagnan turns up at the garrison just a little too late - Porthos and Aramis are outside, mounting their horses, moments away from leaving, and a third horse stands waiting for Athos. He fights the urge to swear and kicks at the ground with the toe of his boot. 

“Ah, d’Artagnan,” Aramis greets him pleasantly, his ever present warm smile painful to look at, “We weren’t sure you'd ever emerge. How’s your head?” 

D’Artagnan feels the panic in his chest lessen just a little. So Athos hasn’t told them - that’s reassuring, at least.

“Agony, thanks,” he grunts in response, dragging a hand over his face. He glances up at Porthos, who looks pale underneath the pulled-low brim of his hat, and they exchange sympathetic grimaces. “Is Athos… around?”

“ _Quand on parle du loup,_ ” Aramis says, and with a tip of his head indicates Athos emerging from Tréville’s office. D’Artagnan sucks in his breath, stands still, unable to lift his gaze to look at him. Athos walks straight past him, giving him the barest of acknowledgements in the form of a slight nod. He doesn’t find his feet until Athos is in his saddle. D’Artagnan grabs at the reins of his horse to stay him, and Athos looks down at him with eyebrows raised, his expression a challenge. 

“Athos, I have to speak with you. _Urgently,”_ he insists through gritted teeth.

“Go on,” Athos prompts, frustratingly calm. D’Artagnan breathes out hard through his nose.

“This is a conversation I’d rather have alone,” he hisses, voice growing lower with each word. “It’s about -”

“Athos?” Aramis calls, from where he and Porthos are waiting under the gate. D’Artagnan bites at his tongue.

“I must be on my way, d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan’s grip on Athos’ reins doesn’t falter. He stands up on his toes. 

“Don’t you remember - last night?” He can’t bring himself to go into more detail, not here. What he did seems too secret, too taboo to speak about in the open, in the light of day, where God would be watching. 

A slow, wry smile pulls at Athos’ lips. 

“That wasn’t something I could forget in a hurry,” he turns his gaze back to where the other musketeers are waiting for him and jerks his reins out of d’Artagnan’s grip, spurring his horse into movement. “Come by my quarters tonight, when I return,” he says without looking at the boy, “And get some rest. You look dreadful.” 

D’Artagnan watches the three ride away, his heart beating in his throat, then slumps miserably onto a bench nearby, dropping his head onto his arms. He makes a silent vow never to drink again.

***

He breaks that vow later the very same day, when d’Artagnan stands outside Athos’ door with a stomach full of Dutch courage and a lump in his throat, too terrified to knock. His hangover hasn’t quite abated, a dull lingering ache behind his eyes and temples. He’s spent the whole day thinking of nothing but what Athos might say to him now, what he might do. Although Athos hadn’t seemed angry when d’Artagnan spoke with him earlier, this is _Athos -_ Athos, who keeps his emotions hidden, who seldom smiles, who rarely laughs, who only so much as raises his voice when thoroughly provoked. How could d’Artagnan possibly know his thoughts? He’s half expecting the man to beat the shit out of him, to tell him he’s disgusting, to drag him to the Captain and have his pauldron and his commission stripped from him. Scenarios like that have been running through his mind and driving him out of it since he woke up that morning.

But he knows he can’t put it off much longer; Athos would be waiting for him, and he must face his fate. Swallowing his fear, d’Artagnan knocks and enters the room in one movement, his eyes tight shut. Half formed prayers run around his brain. _Priez pour nous, pauvre pécheurs._

“Athos, we must speak-”

“Fuck.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes flicker open, surprised at hearing a voice other than Athos’. What meets his eyes is so much more than just a surprise that he couldn’t put it into words if he tried. There on Athos’ bed, naked to the waist and with his trousers around his knees is Porthos, and knelt between his legs is a head of messy curls belonging unmistakably to Aramis. D’Artagnan blinks, takes a few steps back as if he’s just received a blow to the stomach. 

“I- what-” he stammers, his brain ticking too slowly to even begin to process what he’s just seen.

Porthos is on his feet now, holding up his trousers around his hips with one hand and shoving d’Artagnan hard in the chest with the other, out of the doorway, towards the stairs.

“Get out,” Porthos growls, his face stormy with an frightening amalgam of rage and panic, “ _Get out_ , now, or I’ll fucking throw you out!” He threatens, taking a handful of the stunned d’Artagnan’s shirt in his large fist and half throwing him already, making the boy stagger down the first few steps. It takes d’Artagnan a moment to come to his senses, and then he turns on his heel and runs, his brain aflame with confusion. 

**Author's Note:**

> i do intend to carry this on eventually i swear to god.
> 
> translations of the french used in this chapter - 
> 
> "mon pote" - my friend/pal/mate  
> "quand on parle du loup" - "when one talks of the wolf", french version of "speak of the devil and he shall appear"  
> "priez pour nous, pauvre pécheurs" - pray for us sinners, from the prayer hail mary
> 
> merci for reading, i would love to hear any ideas for further chapters as i only have so much plot in my brain at the moment. also if this is badly formatted PLEASE let me know so i can fix it.


End file.
